Y.P.R.: The Magician’s Assistant

Thursday, March 4, 2004 | Fiction

The Magician’s Assistant

by Lydia Fazio Theys

Dear Ms. Theys:

Thank you for your most interesting and entertaining application for the position of magician’s assistant. I am sorry to say that we are unable to offer you the job because—how else can we say it?—you are singularly unqualified for the position. The reasons are quite compelling, to wit:

We feel strongly that even the most generous interpretation of “twenty-something” does not include someone born in 1952.

As discussed, the need to fit into the saw-the-lady-in-half box is key. Judging from your photos, this would be a problem. They do not make a box that big. Your suggested solution involving sawing the fat away first, while mildly amusing, was not helpful. Neither was enclosing your certificate of enrollment in Weight Watchers. Answering the question, “Are you able to touch both feet to nose?” with “Whose nose?” also caused us some concern that your flexibility might leave a lot to be desired.

We thoroughly enjoyed the stories of your past. Yes indeed, the sixties must have been quite some time, or at least my parents have led me to believe they were. However, when we said we required some scripted visits to the past as part of the hypnosis schtick, we did not mean we were looking to hire someone who had actually lived back then.

Your expressed worries in the costuming area were a big negative. Jokes about “all those sequins” and your resulting fear of magnets were, to say the least, very off-putting. And no, they do not make glitter bikinis with tummy panels or under-wire bras. Although, frankly, Ms. Theys, I think you know quite well that we would not tolerate Birkenstocks and support hose, even if they were silver, as part of the costume, and we suspect you were pulling our leg.

Finally, we feel there is something disturbing about your submitting this application at all. There is such a thing as being hopeful, but at some point that crosses the line of “delusional.” Your view of yourself smacks of—if I may be direct—some serious mental shit, or at the very least, of medication skipped or under-prescribed. I urge you to see your primary care provider at your earliest convenience and to bring along the cover letter you submitted with your application. It might be helpful in your diagnosis or adjusting your dosage.

We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,
Raymondo
The Magnificent Raymondo & Company, L.L.C.

Lydia Fazio Theys is an astronomer by training, a technical writer by necessity, and a creative writer by night. Born in Brooklyn, New York, she now lives in Connecticut with her husband and their two children. Two cats—one fat, the other crotchety—a neurotic Italian Greyhound, and whatever else wanders in through the cat door round out the mix. She has recently begun submitting work for publication, and her pieces can be found in slush piles across the land. She writes a regular column for the online quarterly Moondance. You can see her latest column here.